


Perfume

by TheScienceofDevotion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, F/M, Parentlock, Post- Season 3, Post- The Sign of Three, Sherlock - Freeform, SherlockBBC - Freeform, john/mary - Freeform, martin freeman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScienceofDevotion/pseuds/TheScienceofDevotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>♟⟨Hᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʀᴜʟᴇᴅ sᴄᴇɴᴛ ʀᴜʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛs ᴏғ ᴍᴇɴ.⟩ - Pᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ Süßᴋɪɴᴅ, Dᴀs Pᴀʀғᴜᴍ</p>
<p>Fifteen years after Mary and John's wedding, Sherlock, the twenty-first century sleuth, still has enemies to look out for... and another person to 'protect'. Join Sherlock Holmes and his best friend, John Watson, on another one of their whimsical, crime-related adventures.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: Most characters here belong to BBC One and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. </p>
<p>Anyways... Enjoy! It's my first fanfiction. ^^</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

A large cumulonimbus engulfed Heathrow Airport with its shadow.

John stood there, unblinking, simply staring at his best man- his best friend. He could simply not believe it. Sure, he'd killed a lot of people. Serving in the army had its disadvantages... even if, for the most part, John had been a doctor. He'd shot that cabbie, hadn't he? Shame he couldn't include that in the post... He wouldn't deny it, no. But thanks to a consulting detective and a red shock blanket, he'd avoided the court case. After that, they went to a Chinese, as if nothing big had just happened. 'A Study in Pink,' he'd called that case. Of course, his 'flatmate' just had to comment on his capitalization for the word 'pink' in the title, and the necessity of that word. John had simply told him that the use of the adjective was necessary, seeing as Jenny (the dead woman) had been clad in a frankly alarming shade of pink.   
Oh, the memories made tears spring to John's eyes, which settled their stormy gaze on the small private jet that was to take the world's only consulting detective into exile, on a six-month mission- a one-way ticket without a promising return. Deep inside, the doctor was fighting a losing battle against human nature. He was also battling the impulse to punch his friend in the face and to hug him at the same time.  
An image of Magnussen's  blood decorating the front porch of Appledore flashed through his mind. He pushed it away and focused on the man who stood, an irritating head higher, in front of him.  
Sherlock's face was relaxed, an unreadable expression of beyond-calmness. His watery, light-blue eyes that usually reflected a childish and mischievous attitude seemed off-putting, somehow... as if something were slightly wrong about that gaze- it was like the vacant a piercing stare of an abandoned marionette. What was it that he saw within those azure irises? Regret? Most likely not, knowing Sherlock. Sadness? Anger? Annoyance, relief? It was impossible to tell.  
From the airport runway, the pilot yelled over at them that they had five minutes left to say goodbye. John barely heard him- but his previous flat mate, of course, with his bloodhound-like senses, heard. "Well then." For once, it seemed to John as if words were failing Sherlock.  
"Well What?" If only Sherlock were being the same bastard he had been in the bomb incident under Westminster Abbey. If only it were all a joke.  
Sherlock cleared his throat, his expression unchanged, as if he were a block of painted alabaster, and someone had etched in that unnerving, calm look that only appeared on Sherlock's high-cheekboned face.  
   
"It's a girl. We took the test two days ago," John continued, attempting at making conversation.  
"I know."  
"No you don't," John replied, and felt a sudden warmth spread through him.  
"Now I do," Sherlock said, and John was somewhat relieved to see the detective's mouth curl up at the corners. Dr. Watson had nothing to say to that. "You see, it is simple grammar. Had I said, I knew, as opposed to I know, you would have correctly assumed that I didn't know beforehand, therefore implicating tha-"  
"Sherlock, shut up." John was on the brink of laughing. It felt like this whole exile-for-six-moths drama was really just a joke.  
Sherlock Holmes adjusted the scarf around his neck as a current of Londonian, autumn air passed through them. "Oh yes, and before I forget- Sherlock is actually a girl's name," he added, a familiar tone of fibbing smugness in his voice.  
John snorted loudly. "Oh no. There is no way we are naming our daughter after you."  
Sherlock chuckled, the skin around his face crinkling up like it did when he smiled broadly, then extended a hand. His countenance turned serious. John took the ofered hand and shook it- without a word- for none was needed. And that was that.  
 

John stayed standing there as he watched the jet ascend into the sky. That could make a good blog post. Emptiness, he thought. What would it mean, though? How could he- put it into words? To go for six months or more, without seeing that sleuth? Without going on a case? Without playing cluedo? No more smiley faces on Mrs Hudson's walls, no more hearing Sherlock playing the violin in 221B Baker Street, no more heads in the fridge or eyeballs in tea. It would mean more visits to Ella's. Their last appointment, however, hadn't gone terribly well.  
"I am so sorry, darling. I know how hard it must be for you." Mary lay a gentle hand on his arm. John didn't waste his breath trying to convince her he was alright, because in truth, he wasn't. Dr Watson did not respond. He just watched the jet grow smaller, the casket of metal that carried the second person he loved the most in the world.   
                                                                                    * * *  
A vibration in his pocket startled John out of his thoughts. He flipped open the mobile phone, the engraving of To Harry from Clara xxx still detectable under his fingers.    
"Oh, the BASTARD." John muttered furiously, and he was unsure whether he ought to smile or not as he felt his heart flutter.   
   
"Nᴇᴡ Mᴇssᴀɢᴇ 1:  
Rɪᴄʜᴀʀᴅ Bʀᴏᴏᴋᴇ ɪs ʙᴀᴄᴋ. Bᴀᴋᴇʀ Sᴛ. Nᴏᴡ.  
SH"  
   
   
And John watched incredulously as the Jet turned around in mid-air and started its descent back on the runway of Heathrow airport.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watson family dynamics.

Freedom. At last. Anne had been waiting for this break for a long, long time, and for several good reasons, too. It was with a grin on her face and not an ounce of regret that she waved goodbye to her classmates and strode out of the gates of Dulwich College, London. Exams, school, homework… she was done with it all at the moment. Shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat, Anne made her way back home. A winter frost was settling down upon the capital; hopefully it would snow this December. Anne knew the probability of snow was rather small, but nevertheless she still hoped for it.   
The walk back home wasn’t long. In fact, it felt much shorter than usual. Anne’s supposedly-gone anxiety from exam week only shot up again when she formulated that she’d most likely be locked out of the house until one of her parents came home. Anne pressed on the doorbell.A ring could be heard through the door, but there was no answer. Anne pressed her ear to the door, trying to pick out any other sound. Being more of the impatient type, it didn’t require any more than five seconds of silence for her finger to be continuously pressing the doorbell. Barely half a minute later, there was a click of a lock and her father opened the door. Anne stepped inside the moment he did so; with a shiver she embraced the warmth of their home. Anne closed the door behind herself before smiling at her father.   
“Jesus Christ, Anne, I did say I was coming.”  
“Hello, dad. Didn’t hear you,” She answered as she stepped inside , dealing him a sheepish grin.   
“No wonder, over all that racket you were making. I should hope the doorbell isn’t broken,” he chided, as he took her coat from her and hung it up, receiving a thank you.   
Anne rolled her eyes. “It’s not broken. If you’d like me to prove it to you, lock me out again.”  
“No.” John answered firmly. “That’s not happening again, thank you very much. Did you forget your keys again?” He queried, walking back into the living room to settle down.  
Anne chucked her boots into place on the shoe rack, and reached over to hang her scarf up.“Oh, I don’t know. I think I chucked them in the fire,” she said sarcastically. As she walked past the coffee table, she niched a christmas cookie off a plate, and threw herself haphazardly onto her mother’s armchair once she’d draped her wet socks over the radiator to dry.   
“There’s no need to be rude, poppet.” John brought his previously neglected mug of tea to his lips and only grimaced once he’d taken a sip. The beverage was cold, and had turned bitter. John set it back down and opened up the newspaper on his lap.  
Anne, in turn, set down her schoolbag and reached inside it to find her book. “Well, what do you expect me to say if you ask me such a rhetorical question?” She pulled out the thriller book Perfume and flipped it open to the right page, setting her ‘the Hobbit’ bookmark aside. John fought back a grin; Anne was forever getting lost in mystery and thriller books, to Mary’s great chagrin.  
“I was simply making conversation. And I've been working since five this morning at the clinic, Anne, so don’t be difficult."  
She snorted, and ignored the fact that he'd been away for twelve hours. “Anyways, how was your day?”  
John’s eyes automatically slid over to the medical journals of his patients he had yet to complete. They lay on the table next to him in an intimidating stack, and he exhaled deeply. “It was alright. A bit stressful, nothing more. How was your last day of school?”  
She shrugged. “Uneventful. We had some… stupid assembly, followed with mingling. It was a relief for the day to end, really.” John chuckled. He knew how much his daughter detested what the school called mingling. Walking around, telling people things about yourself to know them better… “Oh, and, by the way,” Anne added, “exams and reports come out in two weeks. They told us today. And our teachers gave us homework-” here she executed an excellent eye-roll, "but it's not too much." She let out an exasperated groan. “Homework. For christmas.” Anne brushed some of the flaky snow off of her honey coloured hair.   
John let out a small huff and gave her a gentle smile. “Well, my dear, that’s what teachers do.”   
Anne paused. “If- if I get stuck on chemistry homework, would you mind helping me out on it?” She was glad the mock-exams of the term were over, but the results hadn’t come out yet. Oh- right. Results. “By the way,” she continued, “our head of year told us today that the exam results come out in two weeks or something like that.” She was worried about her exams, but her friends had just waved it off and told her she’d ace it all. Anne just hoped they were right, and there was nothing to worry about.  
“Of course I’ll help you, poppet, it’s what I’m here for,” he told her. “And don’t worry about your mock exams, as long as you did your best in every single one, we’ll be happy.” He reassured.   
“Hm. Thanks, pa.”  
“You’re not being very conversational,” he teased her.  
“Where’s mum?” she said, her dark blue eyes looking up to meet her dad’s identical ones. In the living room, the sound of a fire crackling made her feel more at home than ever. Anne curled up on the armchair as her father flipped the page of the newspaper.  
“Dr. Louis was short on staff today, so she decided to stay back to help him out. She should be coming home soon.” John answered. “All the others were off on holiday.”  
“Lucky bastards,” she muttered under her breath.  
“Language, young lady,” John reprimanded. “Speaking of holidays, your mother said she wanted you to have everything packed for this evening. I believe she told you that yesterday.”  
Damn it, she thought. I still need to pack for tomorrow. Mary Watson had told her to pack everything yesterday; if she came home and found out Anne hadn’t been packing but had been writing and reading instead, she was sure to hit the roof. She didn’t reply, just let out a small, awkward cough.  
John’s mouth quirked up at the corners as he looked up at his daughter. “You haven’t packed yet, have you?”  
Anne gave him an embarrassed and sheepish look and groaned loudly into her hand. "I haven't even started," she admitted. "Mum's going to be so mad..."   
John raised his eyebrows. “Well then, if I were you, I’d start packing, miss Watson,” he said, attempting to be stern.  
Anne pulled a genuinely sophisticated grimace, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh." She slipped her 'the Hobbit' bookmark back into Perfume, and finished the cookie before standing up. "Fine..." She said, obviously not in the mood for packing. Anne placed the book down of the armchair and left the room. John watched her go. “Thank you,” he called after her gratefully. “And try to get some homework done, too, before we leave tomorrow. I’ll call you for dinner.”  
“Yes, dad.” She trudged upstairs dutifully. Anne looked around at her messy room. Where to start? Anne hadn’t a clue. What she did know, on the other hand, was that she had a knack for packing exactly what her mother didn't approve of. And so she prepared to sit around looking at her open wardrobe for half an hour. First things first. She'd need a suitcase. Yes. Brilliant, Anne. What an intelligent assumption. 

Two hours later, and Anne still hadn’t finished packing. Well, she’d pretty much taken out every jumper in her current possession and stuffed them into the suitcase, along with every other thing she thought she might need. What lay before her when she straightened up and cracked her back with a loud groan was a pile of unorganised items of clothing. Her mother would throw a fit, but Anne didn’t get the point of folding up clothes to pack. Sure, it looked neater, but all her clothes were going to get messed up anyways. Anne slammed the suitcase shut, satisfied, and zipped it up, shoving it away from her in a corner of her room. She didn’t want to see it any more.   
She grabbed her school bag, and overturned it, only to wince as her laptop slid loose from her bag to land flat down with a thump. She chucked it onto her bed, along with her phone, and took out all the school books she wouldn’t need for homework. She had chemistry, biology… maths… history… was that it? Probably. Anne was hasty in putting her physics textbook on the bookshelf of her room, glad she would have nothing to do with it for the time being. Thank god they weren’t flying anywhere, or she’d be having serious issues with the weight restriction people. Anne scrolled through her to-read list, which hung pinned up on her wall, and carefully placed several volumes into the bag with her textbooks. She supposed she ought to go downstairs now. 

 

John Watson stared blankly at the medical journal, rubbing a pen against his stubble. With a groan he stretched and helped himself to a long drink of cold tea, his mind as empty as the page that lay in front of him. He couldn’t remember his patients’ name… Perhaps he ought to go to the clinic again… but it was already too late, and Mary would be coming home soon.  
John sighed deeply, his brow creasing. Already, the frown lines of a man of fifty were tainting his face. Then again, John was nearing that age. John lifted his gaze up to the ceiling at the sound of a loud thump, and he shook his head in amusement, Anne really wasn’t an expert packer. As he sat there, in front of the empty fireplace, he found his mind wandering over to her. Anne Sherlock Watson. She looked so much like her mother. They had the same blue eyes, the same nose, the same little quirky smile.   
John saw himself in her, too, but more in personality. They both had that uncontrollable trait of suddenly exploding into anger... as well as the ability to hold a grudge for an unnecessary amount of time. John could only presume that Anne, today, had still not gotten over the fact that her father had forced Mary to make her middle name Sherlock. Sometimes, the doctor wondered why he ever bothered to listen to what his friend said. The man was a genius, yes, but not when it came to compassion, and definitely not when it came to baby names. Well, for the most time.

To both of her parents’ dismay, she hadn’t, however, inherited John’s practicality which the military had helped enhance. Mary used to supervise Anne when she packed, to make sure it was all alright, properly folded, that she hadn’t forgotten anything. John snapped out of his reverie as the door opened and shut again.  
“Mary? Is that you?” He called.   
“Yep,” came a cheerful sounding voice. “It’s me.” Mary said, and entered the living room, to give her husband a light kiss. John watched her walk to the kitchen, smiling. “Everything alright, John?”  
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. You’re home so late, today. Was the staff count really that low?” He asked her, as he began filling out the medical journal, doing his best to ignore the towering and perfectly intimidating stack of other journals next to him, casting them out of his peripheral vision.   
“Yes, it was shocking. All of them have already gone on vacation, pretty much.” Mary answered, rolling up her sleeves and opening the fridge to take a look at what leftovers they had.   
John let out a huff. “Asses,” he muttered.   
“Oi. No swearing. It’s bad influence,” Mary chided, looking at him.  
“Sorry,” he said coyly, grinning at her. 

A moment absent of talking followed as Mary rummaged around in the fridge, and pulled out half a pumpkin. That would do just fine for a hot dinner. “And Anne? Where’s she?” John told her, and she sighed. “And I told her to pack… how many days ago exactly? She’d better have done it well.”  
John snorted. “Since when does Anne pack her things properly? Just leave it, it’ll be fine. I got the airline tickets to Switzerland today. They were cheaper than last week. I assume they’re trying to scrape people into the plane to fill it up.”  
“Mhmm,” she said. “Does pumpkin soup sound alright for dinner?” Mary asked.   
“It sounds perfect.”

Anne stalked back into her room, a towel wrapped around herself, her honey hair darkened from water. She let out a long sigh, dressed quickly into her pyjamas, and then ran downstairs. Mary looked up as her daughter walked into the room. “Hi mum.” Anne said, flashing her mother a smile.  
“Evening, darling. Have you finished packing?”  
“Yeah,” Anne said, settling back down into her chair and curling back up with her book. She suddenly placed it down. “Need some help with the table?” She offered.  
“Yes please,” Mary said.   
“Smells great, mum.” Anne passed her with the cutlery in hand, but was pulled into a hug and kissed on her brow. She sighed. “Yes, okay, mum, let me go. I love you too.” Mary chuckled and released her daughter.   
“Well, I should hope so.”  
John placed the completed journal aside and stood up to help Anne with setting the table.

When they sat down at the table that night, neither of them felt exceptionally grateful for anything which lay in front of them. They took each others’ company for granted; after all, they sat to dinner as a family every evening. Family is everything, some would say.  
 


End file.
